


Brom: Superdad

by FalconFate



Series: Tag Team [1]
Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Brom is superdad, Eragon Murtagh and Roran all grow up together yay, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, I do a lot of those with this series lmao, Morzan dies, Saphira I is baaaack, They’re all children, but aside from him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-26 17:18:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15005630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconFate/pseuds/FalconFate
Summary: Brom is getting real sick of standing by and watching the son of someone he loves get hurt by his own father.So he does something about it.





	1. Dad Practice

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, timeline’s a bit different; Morzan actually gets the egg. He comes back and gloats. That’s all the context you need at the moment.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morzan grows impatient for his Black Hand to return to him. He believes himself valiant in his victory over the Varden, and his stronghold impregnable; but his gardener has other ideas.

Selena had been gone for for months. Brom thought he might go mad with worry, but he had to keep his anxiety to himself—she was a capable woman, and as cunning as any elf.

And if Morzan thought Brom might know where she had gone, it could spell the end for Brom, Selena, and the child she carried.

But every day, it grew increasingly more difficult for Brom to remember his promise. Morzan was growing impatient for his Black Hand to return, and he took it out on the boy—Selena’s sweet, soft-spoken, clever little boy, whose back was still an angry red around the year-old wound from Morzan’s forsaken blade.

Galbatorix’s right-hand-man was recently returned to his estates, victorious in his capture of the blue dragon egg—one of three remaining, Brom knew. Because of his triumph, Galbatorix had entrusted all three of the eggs to Morzan, and they lay securely, glittering dully, in his vaults.

Now Brom wondered if he might not take a disastrously stupid, catastrophically dangerous, but ultimately rewarding risk.

The only problem, really, was the spells. And the servants. And the dragon who slept in the vault. And Morzan himself, of course. Not much of a big deal, Brom reasoned, seeing as Galbatorix himself wasn’t there.

Every day, a stern voice in his head reminded him that he had a promise to keep. Every day, Morzan threw another wine bottle at his son’s head, and if some of them happened to miss when Brom muttered under his breath, who would care?

Every day, the voice in his head grew smaller and weaker. It no longer protested the plans he ran through in his mind, though it continued to point out flaw after flaw after flaw.

And then a new voice popped into his head. A voice that trembled in fear, but was so beautifully, terribly, achingly familiar.

_Brom?_

His hedge snippers paused their cheerful snipping for a moment. Surely he’d imagined it, surely it wasn’t…

 _Brom, it’s me! It’s me, it’s Saphira! Oh, Brom, tell me, what’s going on?_ His dragon’s voice wailed in his mind, and it wrenched his heart in two. _I can’t see! I can’t feel my wings! What happened to me?! Brom—Brom!_ **_I can’t hear my heartbeat!_ ** _Please, please just tell me… tell me what happened!_

 _What do you remember?_ Brom asked softly, kindly, remembering to keep snipping.

 _Doru Araeba,_ Saphira said confidently. _The island—we were taking our stand. Galbatorix was coming! And Morzan and—_

Whatever she said next slipped from Brom’s mind. He blinked, confused, shook his head as if to rid himself of a fly, and refocused on her words.

_—and then you were on the ground… Brom, were you hurt? Are you injured?!_

Brom had to hold back delirious laughter. What a ridiculous thing it seemed to him. _No, Saphira… I am unhurt._

_Are you certain? You sound so… strange. What has happened? Where are the others? I cannot hear them, I can only hear screaming… like the entire island has gone mad._

_The entire world has turned on its head, my dear,_ Brom said quietly. _Doru Araeba was almost a century ago._

Saphira fell silent. Anguish and despair flooded their connection. At length, she said, _I’m dead… aren’t I?_

Brom could not say the words. He gave her his memories; of Morzan and his red beast, both of them frothing at the mouth as the Unnamed dragon cut Saphira down; of Morzan raising his blade and Saphira taking the blow, and being torn to shreds for it; of Glaedr snatching him away from where he held Saphira, gentle Saphira, beautiful Saphira, dead Saphira. His sword was lost, his dragon was dead, and the world had ended. Galbatorix had won.

He continued to snip, but his hands had a mind of their own, now; he and Saphira grieved as one, for each other and for everything they’d ever known.

 _What’s happening now?_ Saphira asked, and her voice seemed small. _Where are we?_

 _I’m in disguise at Morzan’s estate,_ he told her. _You… I don’t know where you are. You must have retreated to your Eldunarí, and been found by Galbatorix._

A wave of venomous anger washed over Brom—fresher and redder than even his own had once been. _Oh, if I only had my claws_ , Saphira hissed, _I would fly to him myself and tear! Him! To! Shreds! And then I would melt the stone of his own throne and trap him in it! And I would drop his corpse to the sea, so that the nïdwhals could take their time to enjoy picking him from the rock! And when they were done I would retrieve his bones and toss them to the infernal slime that lives in the muck of the cesspits of Urgals! And even then his debt would not be repaid!_

Brom waited a moment, not wanting to interrupt if she decided to continue. When she did not, he said, _You may not have your own claws… but you may be able to guide new ones._

Interest caught, Saphira asked, _What do you mean?_

 _The dragons are almost gone. There are three eggs in Galbatorix’s possession… here, at Morzan’s estate._ Saphira was quiet. Brom continued, _His dragon is always in the vault with them, guarding them. There are spells. There are servants. There’s Morzan himself, though he’s often so drunk he can’t tell one end of a sword from the other. But, Saphira… if you’re here, you might have been used to anchor one of the spells._

Saphira’s anger bubbled and simmered, threatening to boil over again. _Those bastards used my very soul as a vessel for their filthy tricks!_ She spat more curses, her voice dripping in acid. Then she paused, said a word Brom could not understand and then continued, _…is here. I can hear him, he’s so… he’s gone. But he’s not gone. He is… strange._

 _Who do you mean?_ Brom queried.

Saphira said the word again, the word that went in one metaphorical ear and right out the other.

And then Brom understood. _Morzan’s dragon._

_…yes._

_Saphira… the dragons of the Forsworn had their names stripped away. I can’t understand what you say._

_Stripped away?_ Saphira echoed faintly. _No wonder he is not the same. He has gone mad with grief over his own name… so then why do I know it?_

 _I don’t know, but perhaps we can use it,_ Brom said eagerly. He’d finished snipping hedges, now, and he hurried back to the gardening shed for some peace and quiet, and to formulate a plan. 

* * *

 

Soon, he had one, though it was far from what he’d originally intended. Saphira, despite her fury, despite her grief, reached out to Morzan’s Unnamed dragon, called the name that she could somehow remember despite the most devastating of spells.

And Morzan’s dragon listened, his own name bringing a moment of clarity and relief to him. He told Saphira all that she asked, and then some; he told her where his Rider collapsed each night in a drunken stupor, when the servants and guards changed watch; he told her he could lift the spells himself by pulling at the energy that bound them to the vault—and he told her that he missed her, he missed her terribly, that she had been a good friend despite his own numerous, terrible faults… that he had, even in insanity, never forgiven himself for her death.

Saphira didn’t answer him for a long time. Brom could faintly feel her internal struggle, her anger and her grief churning and battling with her desire for her own peace. And then softly, quietly, she said, _I may not be able to forgive you. But I will never forget you. And if you can help us today, perhaps you can be free._

 _No, I will never be free,_ he answered with grim confidence. _I am still bound to the life of my Rider. I still know the side of him that is so curious, so passionate about his world, though it has since been twisted and suppressed and hidden away. I will die today, Saphira, but I will die knowing that grief will be borne on my wings no longer. And I ask only this: that the boy, Murtagh… make sure he knows that he is not his father. He is so much more._

 _I will,_ said Saphira. _Thank you…_ And she said his name, a name only she could remember, and Morzan’s dragon revelled in it, though it was no name of glory and glamour; it was simply  _his_.

And Brom snuck through the mansion as night had fully gathered, into the vaults, unseen by any of the servants. He slipped through the heavy doors, no longer spelled shut. Morzan’s dragon awaited him, his scales of ruby and cinnabar gleaming. His eyes were like pale pink roses; they were sharper than Brom had remembered, even in his youth; he wondered why he thought of roses. The dragon’s tail was curled around the three dragon eggs: red, blue, green. One crimson talon clutched a blue gemstone that was smaller than any of the eggs.

The great red dragon stretched his head down and touched his nose to Brom’s forehead. An image filled Brom’s mind, of the little boy Murtagh, gazing up in awe, one of his first bruises from his father swelling and bleeding on his cheekbone, the bloom of red stronger than any other color in the picture.

 _Protect him,_ the dragon pleaded. _Do not let him fall._

Brom raised his hand, the one with the faded gedwëy ignasia, and placed it on the dragon’s smooth red nose. “I will take him as my own,” he promised, and then again in the Ancient Language, sealing his fate forever.

Satisfied, the dragon drew away, and pushed the eggs and the Eldunarí to him. _When you kill my Rider, for I know you will_ , the dragon said, _do not give him any chances. Strike your deadliest blow. Do not give another thought to honor, for all honor has fled him. He is a walking corpse; the killing blow simply has yet to land._

Brom looked at him in surprise. “I will remember,” he swore.

The dragon nodded, and curled his tail over his talons, and rested his chin atop his tail. _Then go,_ he commanded. _There is little time. I have done what I can to remove the spells from your treasures, from the boy, and from my Rider. Do not waste this chance._

 _We must go,_ Saphira murmured. _He will not be this way much longer._

So Brom placed the eggs in a large, padded satchel, and slipped Saphira’s Eldunarí into the pocket above his breast. And then he crept through the mansion, slipped past the servants into Murtagh’s wing—his playroom devoid of toys except for small weapons, his tutoring room full of books dedicated to the false history of the Empire, his bedroom with a too-big bed for a too-small child.

Murtagh sat bolt upright in his bed as Brom entered, though he had made little sound—the boy must not have been asleep. Brom’s heart broke in two for the second time that day; Saphira crooned gently in his mind, wishing to reach out to the boy. Brom rushed to the foot of the bed.

“Murtagh,” he whispered, “I’ve come to take you away from here.”

“You’re the gardener,” Murtagh whispered back. “My mother said she’d come back for me.”

Brom smiled. “We’re going to find her first. I know where she’s gone.”

“But Father will find us.”

Brom shook his head. “No, Murtagh. That man may have fathered you, but he is not your father. I can escape him; _we_ can escape him. He won’t find us or hurt us where we’re going. He won’t hurt you, ever again.”

Tears spilled down Murtagh’s cheeks. “Ever?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Ever,” Brom promised.

* * *

 Wrapping him up in a too-large cloak, Brom bundled the little boy into the stable, saddled a horse who could travel far and fast but was not too recognizable, set Murtagh in the saddle, and led him to the edge of the property. He left Saphira’s Eldunarí with him, telling him, “This stone is alive—she will tell you if there is danger before I return.”

“Where are you going?” Murtagh asked fearfully.

Brom smiled reassuringly. “To cover our tracks.”

Of course, that _was_ what he was doing. He just happened to also be doing something else.

Back into the mansion he crept, back into the sleeping wing, taking a left where he had previously taken a right, into Morzan’s quarters. There Morzan was, exactly where his dragon had said he would be, splayed out on one of his overstuffed armchairs, throat exposed to the moonlight, reeking of wine and sweat, snoring. Brom remembered how he had once looked up to this man, back then a boy of noble bearing and neat clothes.

It was not hard to put aside that image and put Zar’roc through Morzan’s chest. Nor again to put it through his neck, to make doubly sure of the job.

Ah, to have a Rider’s blade in his hands once again, brightsteel and blood both gleaming silver in the moonlight. Were it not for the handle, the length, the weight, the just-slightly-off balance, it could have been Undbitr.

 _Stop reminiscing!_ Saphira snapped. _We need to leave, now!_

Hurriedly, Brom wiped Zar’roc on Morzan’s coat, sheathed it, and wrapped it in his spare cloak; then he sped away from the scene, found Murtagh in the forest, climbed into the saddle behind him, and spurred the horse on.

They were a little over a mile away when, from behind, a mournful scream rose from the mansion—the death cry of a dragon who has lost his Rider, twisted and corrupt though he may have been.

Murtagh pulled his hood low over his ears and leaned into Brom. He could hear Saphira murmuring to the boy, words of comfort, seeds of hopeful dreams… soon the boy dropped off to sleep, perhaps soothed by the steady rhythm of the horse’s strides, perhaps consoled by Saphira’s quiet words. Or perhaps it was Brom’s own whispers, words of power falling from his lips to the boy’s head resting against his chest, the words themselves snatched away by the wind, but the magic behind them as stubborn as the setting sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’ve been rereading Eragon and I used to not? really like? brom or eragon?? But you know what they’ve grown on me and I’ve adopted them, so here, have some Brom: Become Superdad. (Alagaesia: Become Dad??? just let my boys have an actual father and a loving family good grief)
> 
> Also I have a theory that Morzan’s dragon’s name was related to roses.


	2. More Dad Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murtagh is astounded to discover this thing called kindness, and he loves it. He loves the horse, too.

There were many days of hard riding, passing villages that Brom didn’t trust, sleeping in the wilderness. Murtagh never complained, even when the saddle rubbed sores into his legs, even when he shivered in the night—Brom gave the boy his cloak at night, now, and Saphira to hold, for her fire seemed to exist in her very soul.

The eggs lay tight in the satchel, and Brom cradled them at night, fearful of taking his eyes from them for even a moment. He knew that the Varden expected him to give them the eggs—but he didn’t want to give them up. Perhaps it was Saphira, influencing his thoughts; her Eldunarí hummed faintly when it was near the eggs, and she said that she could hear the dragons inside.

It would be entirely useless to simply hide the eggs away, as Galbatorix had done. But Brom wondered if _all_ the eggs were needed to defeat the king; with his right-hand-man gone, and no other dragons on his side alive save for his own, Galbatorix would be weaker than ever before.

But for now, Brom focused on riding. First he rode south, then east, then came alongside the vast plains and turned north. Saphira helped him to imprint a trail towards Surda, and cover their northbound tracks. When they came back to Leona Lake, two weeks into their journey, the dark, hollow circles around Murtagh’s eyes had faded, and he’d smiled when Brom told him that, in the Ancient Language, _leona_ meant ‘lake’—which meant they were picking their way along the pebble beach of _Lake Lake._

Brom dared not enter Dras Leona, for it was too near to Helgrind, too firmly under Galbatorix’s thumb.

It took them a week to ride the length of Leona Lake.

Another fortnight of sleeping in the dirt and riding until Brom dismounted the horse and thought the ground was moving; they reached the village of Daret, and Brom decided that they were far enough away to buy better clothes. Murtagh looked around with wide, curious eyes as they rode into Daret; the market was in full swing. Men and women called out their wares, traded jokes, laughed together. One stall was selling furs; another was selling quartz jewelry; yet another offered fine leather jackets. Brom stopped at all three: he bought a small fur coat that was just a little big around Murtagh’s shoulders (“Don’t worry, you’ll grow into it in time,”), a small, polished, pale pink stone on a leather cord (“Here, hold on to this, it’s for your mother,”), and a lightly embellished short jacket for himself (“Why are you laughing? I look fantastic, the beard completes the look!”).

Brom also purchased herbs and vegetables, a new pair of boots for himself and for Murtagh, a few spools of soft yarn, and a pair of knitting needles. Murtagh eyed the yarn and the needles, and asked quietly, skeptically, “Are those for my mother too?”

Brom chuckled. “No, these are for me.”

The awed expression on Murtagh’s face was quite priceless, and well worth the venture into Daret.

They stayed the night in the inn—with Murtagh’s permission (in the form of such enthusiastic nodding Brom thought the boy’s head might fall right off), Brom introduced them as father and son. They were given two small cots in a room with a sloped roof and a slightly drafty window; after months of rolling up in their cloaks and sidling up next to the horse for shelter from the wind, it was as luxurious as any lord’s private chambers. Murtagh hummed happily to himself as he got ready for bed—a lullaby tune Brom had heard Selena sing.

* * *

 They rode out from Daret with bellies full of warm breakfast, and an extra four waterskins Brom had bought as they left. They rode along the Ninor River for a few days, until they reached Yazuac, where they slept in another inn. That night in the stables, Murtagh decided to give their horse a name: “Rosebriar,” he said, “‘cause he’s a sweetheart, and he’s a pretty color, but his tail is always full of brambles.”

Saphira hummed in appreciation of the name. The strawberry roan gelding nodded his head as if in agreement. Brom smiled as he gently brushed the horse’s face. “Rosebriar it is, then.”

As they readied for bed, Brom pulled out his yarn and needles. He’d already knitted several rows of soft blue and lavender. His tight knits and the soft yarn made a lovely, smooth piece of work, perfect for a blanket. Murtagh watched him work, entranced with the way the needles flashed and clicked and looped the thread around each other.

* * *

 The next morning, Rosebriar bore them out to the plains. Murtagh squinted into the wind to see the far edge, but the field of waving grass seemed utterly endless—ahead, and to either side. “How will we find our way across?” he asked.

“By the sun, the moon, and the stars,” Brom answered confidently. “I’ve crossed these plains before. It’s not so bad, really. At our pace, we’ll reach the far side in a few days.”

Murtagh eyed the sky skeptically, but seemed satisfied with Brom’s reassurances.

Halfway through the day, Murtagh was glad Brom had found the extra waterskins. There was no source of water anywhere—no pond, no stream, not even a puddle. One waterskin was reserved for the horse, and Brom rationed out another one for himself and the boy. The wind made it tricky, as it dried out their lips and eyes and made them thirstier than they might otherwise have been.

At the end of the day, they were lucky enough to stumble upon a knoll in the endless flatness. Rosebriar lay by the small mound, his rear end to the wind, while his riders pressed themselves into the small shelter. As he usually did, Murtagh slept curled around Saphira’s heart-of-hearts.

When they woke with the sun, the wind had stilled. Mist blanketed the plains in a three-foot-thick layer. Murtagh gasped when he was in the saddle, for he could see across a wide, smooth expanse of milky blue and golden clouds. As Rosebriar started moving, he left eddies and swirls in the fog; Murtagh imagined that they must look as though they rode where only a dragon could have reached.

Of course, the illusion didn’t last. The mist faded quietly as the sun continued to rise, and Rosebriar’s fetlocks darkened with dew. As the day carried on, purple-blue shapes appeared on the horizon. Brom sighted on one in particular, making sure to point it out to Murtagh: “Do you see the tall one by itself? That’s Utgard Mountain. That’s where we’ll pass beyond the Spine.”

That seemed to lift Murtagh’s spirits, to have their destination in sight.

But when night fell again, they seemed hardly any closer, though the mountains had grown larger. Brom noticed, suddenly, that Murtagh had grown as well—a whole inch in height, and no longer so pale. He’d been well-fed under the care of Morzan’s servants, but Brom wondered if his constant state of fear could have negatively affected his growth.

It was the next day that Brom knew they had to finish crossing the plain—there was one more waterskin for the horse, and one more for the riders. Fortunately, they were making excellent time.

The sun had reached and passed its peak when Rosebriar reached the foothills of the Spine. Utgard Mountain quickly shadowed them as they climbed. Brom found a road, and turned towards what he knew would be Therinsford.

And then they met another rider.

Murtagh shrank back into Brom and tugged his hood low over his face; they had strayed far from the roads on their journey, and hadn’t yet come across another traveller. The stranger before them now was shadowed by the setting sun, but Murtagh could see that the cloaked and hooded rider was slender and narrow-shouldered, astride a sturdy horse.

To his surprise, Brom greeted the rider cheerfully as they neared. “A pleasant afternoon for a jaunt, isn’t it?”

The strange rider looked up and pushed back her hood, revealing braided hair, a face of proud, sharp features, and gray eyes full of surprise and warmth.

“Mother!” Murtagh cried, flinging himself out of Rosebriar’s saddle and running to her.

Selena gave a cry and scrambled down from her own mount, catching Murtagh in her arms and swinging him around her. “Murtagh, my love, my boy,” she murmured in a voice thick with emotion, holding him tight. “Where have you come from? How in the world did you find me?”

Murtagh shifted in her arms and pointed back at Brom, who had trotted closer to them. “He said that Morzan would never hurt us again. Ever.”

Doubt clouded Selena’s features, and she looked at Brom is askance. He smiled slightly. “There is no chance that Morzan can hurt you,” he said softly. “I know you asked me to wait, but your son needs family—he needs you.”

Selena sighed. “If you’re certain he won’t come after us,” she demanded.

“He’s not going after anyone,” Brom promised.

Selena was silent for a moment. She studied Murtagh’s face, pushed his dark hair out of his eyes—gray eyes, like her own… like her brother’s. She smiled and asked him, “Would you like to meet my family?”

Murtagh’s eyes went wide. “Yes! Is that where you went?”

“It is.”

His voice grew quiet. “Are they my family too?”

Selena smiled and held him close. “Of course they are, my love. You have an uncle, and an aunt, and a cousin who’s almost your age! And more than that—come close, let me tell you a secret.” She touched their foreheads together, and said in her ‘secret voice,’ “You have a little brother, too. But remember,” she added sternly as she pulled away, “it’s a secret.”

Murtagh grinned giddily. Then he gasped in understanding. “Oh! Is that why you left? So that my brother would be safe?” His face crumpled a bit when she nodded. “Why didn’t you take me?” His voice was small.

“I hadn’t known, then, the danger you were in,” Selena whispered. “Your father—I thought he could love you.” She ran a hand through his hair, and held his face in both her hands. “But now I know. I was going to come back for you, bring you to them as well… but it seems you and Brom have taken things into your own hands,” she said wryly.

“I didn’t know gardeners could be heroes,” Murtagh agreed, nodding. Selena laughed.

Brom chuckled too. “You’d be surprised what the smallest, lowest-ranked person can accomplish,” he said. He shaded his eyes and looked to the west, where the sun was dipping below the mountains. “We should be getting on. It’s late, we’ll have to stop soon for the night.”

“Come!” Selena said to Murtagh, “You can ride with me on Calberon.” The stocky buckskin pricked his ears at the sound of his name. From the saddle, Murtagh admired his stiff, short-shorn mane, pale as cornsilk on the sides, with a stripe of black down the center. Calberon and Rosebriar took a moment to introduce themselves, touching noses and exchanging smells as Brom leaned in his saddle to give Selena a quick kiss to her cheek.

And then they were off, determined to shorten the distance to Therinsford.

* * *

 Five days passed. Murtagh basked in his mother’s presence as much as her affection; Morzan had never allowed them to be together more than a day. He discovered that Selena had freed herself from Morzan’s clutches in part because of him, and in part because of Brom. He puzzled over this new information for a day or so—his mother could love someone who was not his father? Well, that wasn’t really so hard, was it? But… would she stop loving him? (Selena told him that that was absolutely impossible)

And then he figured out that his brother was only his half-brother. But still his brother, Selena assured him. And then Brom said he would be proud to love Murtagh as his own son, so then really, he and his brother would be full brothers. The idea sent a shiver of excitement down his spine.

And what about the other family that he would meet? His uncle, his aunt, his cousin who was almost his age? Did they know about him? No, they did not. Would they hate him? Absolutely not! But what if he made them angry? Would they shout?

Selena’s heart shattered to hear her son ask that. “No, they won’t shout,” she said firmly. “My brother Garrow—your uncle—he is stern, and he is proud, but he knows to never shout. And Marian, your aunt, she is sweet and kind, and she sings all the best songs in Carvahall.”

Murtagh smiled to hear that. “Will she sing your song?”

“I don’t know,” Selena told him. “That song is a song of my family, from my great-grandparents. I hadn’t heard her sing it while I was there.”

On the sixth day of their travel, Brom said he spied chimney spoke in the distance. And then they crested a hill, and Carvahall was spread below them: square fields dotted with houses, and then the village itself, neat rows of houses. Snow still clung to existence in the shadows of the houses and trees, but the riders shed their outer layers anyway, for it was a warm day.

With renewed enthusiasm, Calberon and Rosebriar kept up a brisk trot on the road. Calberon whinnied when a particular farmhouse came into sight. “We’re here,” Selena announced, and with a warm smile she added, “We’re home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never fear, Brom shall resume his knitting at some point. 
> 
> Also, have I mentioned that I completely adore each and every one of these characters?


	3. A Practicing Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've reached Carvahall, and Murtagh tries to remember the names his mother told him.

His mother and Brom spoke in hushed, urgent voices with a wiry man who had Selena’s eyes, and nose, and angular features—Garrow. A short, small woman, with rich brown hair that pooled above her shoulders, gave Murtagh a bowl of something warm and sweet. A little boy, indeed close to Murtagh’s age (and size), had stared at him for several minutes before running upstairs.

Murtagh hoped he hadn’t somehow hurt the boy’s feelings.

He sat at the kitchen table, his legs dangling from his chair, using a pewter spoon to scrape up the last delicious drops from the wooden bowl. He worried for a moment about the conversation on the other side of the room, but a gentle voice in his mind—the warm blue stone, which Brom had let him keep in his coat pocket—told him to pay them no heed.

So he turned his gaze to the opposite side of the room, where heat radiated from a small stove. A cradle stood near it—not too near, but close enough to be warm. The first thing Selena had done, before she had been dragged into conversation, was to lean over the cradle for a long moment.

Now Murtagh slid from his chair, but paused and turned to study his bowl. Should he try to put it away? Where did dirty dishes belong? He didn’t want to leave it…

The woman with the brown hair smiled at him reassuringly and took the bowl and spoon herself, nodding her head in the cradle’s direction. “Go and see him,” she said softly, with a warm smile that made her kind brown eyes crinkle pleasantly in the corners.

Murtagh decided that he liked her. He crept close to the cradle, not sure why he felt nervous about what may lie in it. What if the baby cried when he looked at Murtagh? Or, even worse: what if the baby wasn’t there? What if the baby had been kidnapped and everyone blamed Murtagh?! What if—

_Stop worrying about the what-ifs and find out for yourself,_ the stone grumped in his mind. _I want to see the little one._

Three more steps and he’d be able to see him. _Step_. He tried to remember the name Selena had given him. Was it Marian? _Step_. No, that was his aunt’s name—surely the nice woman who’d given him food. Roran? No, that was his cousin—the little boy with the gray eyes, like Murtagh’s own. _Step_. No, he remembered now, it was…

“Eragon,” Murtagh whispered, peeking over the edge of the wicker-basket cradle. And there he was, little Eragon, swaddled in soft, worn brown cloth, asleep. Murtagh let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, and couldn’t help but smile at the serene expression on the baby’s round little face, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

The stone’s voice hummed in his mind again, crooning softly. _I always loved little humans,_ she sighed. _So… blameless. So happy. They haven’t yet learned fear or hatred._

Curious, Murtagh furtively drew the blue stone from his pocket and held it next to Eragon. She hummed happily in his mind, and the stone pulsed with a faint glow. Murtagh could see and feel the thoughts she passed to the infant, wordless for he knew no language yet: the warm feeling of companionship with a true friend; a curiosity of the wide, unpredictable world; the utter joy and elation of flight without fear. She kept them subtle, small, gentle, to better fit the baby’s brain. The baby stirred slightly, and Murtagh hurriedly tucked the stone back into his pocket.

Little Eragon blinked up at him, suddenly awake. Fathomless blue-gray eyes seemed to stare Murtagh down. And then they slid away, crossing a little bit; with his chubby cheeks giving his mouth a jutted-out pout, and his wayward eyes, he looked adorably, ridiculously confused and startled. One fat little baby arm had wriggled free of the swaddling and now waved jerkily, fingers opening and closing.

Without another thought Murtagh stuck his own hand into the cradle, offering a finger in the general area of the wildly swinging little baby hand. When Eragon did catch a hold of Murtagh’s finger, he held it tightly with surprising strength. Quite content to stay there, Murtagh began humming; the lullaby that Selena had managed, in their brief moments together in Morzan’s castle, to teach him.

Suddenly, on his left appeared the little boy from before, with his gray eyes creased in a big friendly smile. “Mama tol’ me to fin’ a way to make you frien’,” he said, “so I was trying to fin’ best toy. This one!” He lifted his arm straight up into the air, and then brought it down as though to bestow it upon Murtagh. It was a beautifully carved wooden horse—entirely wrong in its proportions, with skinny legs, a tiny head, an alarmingly curved spine, and huge mane and tail, but it was alluring in its unearthly shapes and lovingly smoothed curves. It was obviously well-loved; the hooves had lost some of their intricate detail, and its barrel had the soft shine that came from often-handled wood.

Murtagh glanced between the horse and the boy many times, wide-eyed, before he shyly stretched out his unoccupied hand. Roran immediately set it into his palm, grinning a toothy grin.

“Thank you,” Murtagh said quietly, holding the horse close to his chest and running his thumb over the swirling mane.

“You’re welcome,” Roran replied happily. He rounded the cradle to stand on the other side of it, rising up on his tippy-toes to peer at baby Eragon. “Oh, he likes you!” he observed, noticing the baby’s grip on Murtagh’s finger.

Something warm and fuzzy was settling in Murtagh’s chest. He chanced a small smile at Roran, who beamed back at him. The adults’ conversation had finally stopped, and Selena crouched beside him, kissing the top of his head and caressing Eragon’s cheek. Garrow’s expression was unreadable, but Marian’s smile was as warm as the porridge and cream she’d given him. Brom’s hand landed lightly on Murtagh’s shoulder and squeezed gently, and he looked at Murtagh, Selena, and the baby in the cradle with so much love that it seemed like he might overflow with it.

* * *

 Many months later, Eragon was crawling around, constantly following his brother and cousin if he wasn’t being held. Murtagh’s fourth birthday had come with a small celebration, but the best he’d ever had—Aunt Marian’s piping hot porridge and cream with wild strawberries (his favorite) to wake him up in the morning, a whole set of new clothes from Aunt Marian and Uncle Garrow, a sketch of Calberon and Rosebriar, a pair of vibrant blue socks from Brom, and even a mental, off-key song from the voice in the stone. Roran gave him a rock he’d found, with layers of blue, gray, and green. All in all, the most fantastic birthday in the history of birthdays.

Brom had left their company only once, and when he returned he seemed much lighter. The strange, lumpy satchel he’d carried in his flight with Murtagh seemed one lump emptier.

The horses were happy to roam the woods immediately near the house; Calberon was often used for plough work, while Rosebriar was more suited to be hitched to the wagon to go into town.

Selena constantly looked over her shoulders, still terribly afraid that her family would be discovered. But time passed, and she allowed herself to enjoy this new, unexpected life… with a dozen protective wards placed on the house.

Brom and Garrow were working together to raise a new building on the farm. There were several rooms in the main house, but only so many; Murtagh and Roran shared a room (which both boys were currently fine with), while Brom and Selena slept with Eragon in their room, but Garrow and Brom were thinking of the future, when any of the boys might want their own rooms. So they built a smaller house with room for three beds, and as soon as it was done Selena and Brom would move in, and Murtagh hadn’t yet thought that far ahead, because his days were kept busy with small chores and throwing stones at the crows who tried to steal the crops.

Roran’s third birthday passed as well, with a celebration similar to Murtagh’s. He made sure to find an especially interesting rock for his cousin. The socks Brom gave Roran were purple.

Sometimes, Murtagh would wake in the night, choking on a scream because he’d seen a red blade flash through the air. Roran would always sit on the bed with him on those nights, with the logic that if Murtagh was awake then he had to be awake too. Soon the nightmares became infrequent, and his scar finally began to pale. Bitter, unhappy memories began to fade from Murtagh’s now-four-year-old mind, replaced by laughter as Brom managed to get cream on his nose, and the tender touch of his mother whenever he looked for it, and Eragon’s sweet squeals of amusement, and Roran’s interesting rocks, and Marian’s singing, and Garrow’s look of warm approval whenever Murtagh learned another skill.

Murtagh could finally believe in the happy endings Marian seemed to favor in her stories, because now he thought he might have one of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did actually write all of this in three days, but I'm camping in the boondocks of the mountains so cell service is zip. 
> 
> But stay tuned for more in the series! I have plans for my boys—good plans, not captured-and-enslaved or killed plans. ;)
> 
> also I should mention that I do not own these characters!

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is gonna be a series; stay tuned for more!


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